


Blow out the candle and make a wish

by misbehavin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Sam Winchester's Birthday, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 08:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14666907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbehavin/pseuds/misbehavin
Summary: He sits at the table, stares at it. Even the lonely candle stuck in it seems suspicious.





	Blow out the candle and make a wish

**Author's Note:**

> I know I know, Sam's birthday is May 2nd and I'm so many days late. What matters is that my boy deserves this ok!! 
> 
> Also, this fic is set in the Bunker but not in any specific season. There's a brief mention of Jess.

 

It’s ugly.

Sam blinks and it stays there, ugly looking and irradiating weirdness.

He sits at the table, stares at it. Even the lonely candle stuck in it seems suspicious.

It’s not that Sam _forgot_ about his own birthday, because that’s not the kind of information that has ever been one hundred percent obscured or gone, despite the ridiculous amount of concussions he’s had in his life. He just got used to it not being made into a big deal, and for some time now he lets the date slip right past him without a fuss. Isn’t it better to not expect anything than to be disappointed?

That’s why the cake and the candlelit kitchen makes him feel out of place. It’s like stepping into a hazy dream-come-true when you’re grown out of expecting for anything but hidden traps. He searches for them everywhere and none of the typical evidences are there. He clings to the scar on his hand, stares at the cake like maybe it’s going to devour _him_.

He doesn’t blow the candle. He holds his breath, thinks really hard about what even could he wish for.

He doesn’t eat the cake either. It’s ugly and apparently poisonous, or made of dirt, or about to fall apart. Looks all too familiar for his liking.

He stands up, goes after some coffee. It’s way too early to deal with any curse. It’s way too early to even think about how old he’s gotten -- how long it’s been since his last _real_ birthday? One where nobody had died, one with real birthday things and a reason more relevant than time to celebrate living? Jess had bought two cakes for him back in college, one for the party she insisted on and another just for them to eat after everybody had left. He remembers the taste of it and the taste of her laughter, and it’s the kind of memory he keeps locked away along with the memory of that one birthday when he drove the Impala for the first time.

Sam takes a deep breath, shakes his head. He’ll have his breakfast and climb back into bed and ignore birthday tradition altogether. Dean will probably not bother with it too, even though he’s obsessed with finding excuses to stuff himself with sweets.

“Should I sing?” Castiel’s rough voice says, out the blue.

The only reason why Sam doesn’t jump at the sudden sound of company it’s because he’s used to it by now. Castiel comes and goes often without any warnings, like he doesn’t think he belongs anywhere. Sam sometimes also feels that way, but the thought of Cas not knowing he belongs _here_ is outrageous, so recently he’s been swallowing his pride and asking Castiel to stay. Funny how there’s a big chance that somewhere else their similarities wouldn’t be enough to bring them close. They were born into different sides of the oldest of wars and yet walked the same paths of mistakes and redemption. This is Cas and this is Sam and that’s how they work: in a weird, unique sync.

Sam turns around and says, “Morning, Cas. What do you mean?”

“I baked you a cake for you birthday,” Castiel says, like it’s obvious. “I was going to bring it over to your room but you woke up earlier than I expected. So, should I sing happy birthday? I don’t think I’m very good at it but I practised…”

“Uh,” Sam mumbles. He steals a glance at the cake on the table, and it’s still there, ugly and way too big. “Okay, _what_?”

Castiel glares. He sighs then starts to sing out of tune apparently on purpose, just for Sam’s amusement. “ _Happy birthday to you_ …”

“Cas,” Sam interrupts, because this makes no sense. Cas knows how to bake? And he baked a _cake_? _For him?_ “Thanks, man, but. What is all this?”

“It’s your birthday. People have cake on their birthdays so I made you one. What part of this is confusing?”

Sam stays still as marble, waiting for the punchline. Maybe he’s still deep asleep, or under a spell, and this is only wishful thinking. He looks back and forth between Cas and the cake, as subtle as he can, then takes a few, slow steps forward. There are no windows in the Bunker but the room looks brighter as he moves, the lonely candle’s flame expanding, and he can’t help but think he’s stepping into sunlight after a long time spent in the dark.

“You didn’t have to do this,” says Sam, quietly. He puts his arms around Castiel and hides his face in his neck. He still smells a little bit like flour. “Thank you.”

“I still have a few more gifts to give you,” Cas says, squeezing like this is their first hug and he’s this close to engraving Sam’s ribs with his name. Again.

“Oh?” Sam pulls away from the hug, frowns, “You shouldn’t--”

Before he can finish the sentence, Cas curls both hands around his shirt and kisses him. A quick peck on the lips first, then another, firmer kiss. A bold statement.

There’s a shadow of doubt across his features when he pulls back, so Sam kisses him back until it vanishes. Cas pushes his whole body into it, his mouth soft, eager. Sam holds his face with both hands, leaves no space between them for uncertainty. Forget birthdays, how long it’s been since _this_ type of real thing?

“That’s a nice gift, Cas,” mutters Sam, between each press of lips.

“Sam, you should blow out the candle and make a wish.”

“Before we set the kitchen on fire?”

Castiel squints his eyes at him, same way he does as he’s about to ask, _is this innuendo?_

“We are not having sex in the kitchen.” If it’s meant to be an affirmation, it definitely doesn’t sound like it.

Sam snorts a chuckle. He feels lighter, even slightly regretful of his earlier bitterness.

“Just go grab a knife, please.”


End file.
